


Hand

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [26]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Promise, The Rest of the Cast Too, but in minor roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29105082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: Corypheus makes his final stand, the day is saved, and Brennan contemplates asking a very important question...
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 39
Kudos: 22





	1. Brennan

**Author's Note:**

> Hi lovely readers!! Apologies for this being my first posting in a month, but this turned from a two-chapter fic into three chapters and then into four, and I wanted to be certain that it was fully done and polished before I risked putting the first chapter out there. Chapters 2 - 4 will be posted every other week, so hopefully I can rebuild the fic-buffer that rather sort of vanished in December while I was stressing out over this one, lol.
> 
> Anyways, it is my birthday today, so I wanted to give you all a present! I hope you enjoy it!! ♥

He returns from his morning mental training with Morrigan to find Cassandra on the balcony overlooking the mountains, a contemplative look on her face.

Careful to make a little noise, so as not to surprise her and end up with his love possibly toppling over the balustrade, he comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his body. She lets out a pleased sigh, leaning her head against his.

“Successful?” she asks.

“If by successful, you mean Morrigan shouting at me to stop trying to listen with my ears, and comparing me unfavourably to a variety of farm animals and, at more than one point, the King of Fereldan, then yes, my love, very successful.”

She chuckles softly. “She is concerned about you, as are we all.”

“I think I’d believe that if she hadn’t started calling me Dane at one point. Which, I’m fairly sure, is the name of the Hero’s mabari. Although, come to think of it, I suppose that may have been her own special way of complimenting me.”

“Hmm, perhaps.”

“I thought she might have relaxed her antagonism after… well… learning who is actually in my head.”

She sighs. “I am still not…”

He tilts his head to kiss her temple as she struggles to find her words. In all truth, he isn’t particularly happy about having Morrigan’s mother in even partial control of his thoughts. However, Mythal… Flemeth… whoever she was, did not seem as… unpleasant as Morrigan had described afterward. Though she _had_ taken control of his body in the Fade, it had only been to prevent Morrigan from attacking her. Self-defence, after a fashion. And even then, he had had the feeling that she had done it simply because it was expedient, not due to much malicious intention. And she had… _insinuated_ that she did not have any orders for him. Not yet, at least. There will be time to worry about what that means later. Hopefully much later.

Cassandra is still silent in his arms, the concept of the elven god turned witch of the wilds in his head a little too much to comprehend.

“At least I got a pet dragon out of the deal,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

She turns her head, scowling at him.

“I hardly think…”

He leans in, kissing her again; this time on the tip of her nose, which turns her scowl to a hesitant smile. “I know, my love. Still. A dragon. We can’t discount how much it will help.”

Resting her head back against his, she sighs again. “We must _find_ Corypheus. He will only rebuild his power and come at us again. And he will come. Whatever mad play the magister has in mind, you star as his nemesis. I shudder to think what a creature like that could concoct next, given the time.”

“We’ll deal with whatever he throws at us.”

“Do not underestimate him. He is powerful, and you have yet to fight him one on one. But he will come. You will get your chance.”

“We’ll face Corypheus _together_.”

His previous panic about Cassandra facing the Elder One has not entirely faded from his mind, but he knows now that he both wants and needs her by his side when they end this.

Her voice softens. “There is not another man I would be more proud to fight beside. Not long ago, this was impossible to imagine. You, the man I love. Victory, close at hand. The time has come to consider what will come next.”

Though he has several quite clear ideas about what he wants next, including an actual proposal, as small a wedding as Josephine will let them get away with, and a handful of other, longer term goals that he doesn’t want to even think about, lest the Maker hear and take them away from him, he simply smiles.

“I don’t care what’s next, as long as we’re together.”

“And if I am named Divine?” Her voice turns light and teasing, shifting in his arms so they are face to face, and he knows what she wants him to say, what she wants him to do.

He tightens his arms around her again, pressing his forehead against hers. “I _won’t_ lose you to the Chantry.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

He lowers his mouth to hers, kissing her slowly and thoroughly, sincerely. She smiles against his lips and even though he prays to the Maker daily that it won’t be the last time, he tries to memorise the feel of it.

Then…

Then his hand bursts into _pain_ , the mark flaring bright and hot in his palm.

He pushes back from her, throwing himself back against the wall between the windows, away from the balcony’s edge, gripping his left hand in his right. A guttural scream echoes into the mountains, but it takes a moment for him to realise that he is making it himself. He senses Cassandra near him, her panic and fear, but before he can pull himself together enough to reassure her, impossibly, the sky rips open again.

“The Breach!” he hears her cry out, distant and muffled, as if from a very long way off, as the voices in his head crescendo.

“ _Corypheus_ ,” he manages to reply.

Then, all at once, the pain vanishes, the voices vanish, everything goes silent and still.

The mark fades back to its usual luminous scar, and he can’t help but stare at it, even as Cassandra drops into a crouch beside him, near enough to touch but holding herself back. He drags his gaze away from his hand, glancing up into her terrified eyes.

It hurts almost as much as the mark, that terror.

Ever since he has known her, ever since that first day he was knelt in chains while she interrogated him about the death of Divine Justinia, she has been the strong one. His safe place to run to. Even back when he was almost entirely convinced that she either hated him or merely thought he was a useless waste of space, he could still rely on her completely, to protect him from anything.

She could.

She always could.

But she can’t protect him from this.

He reaches out for her with his right hand, squeezing tight when she grips it with her own. The terror still shines in her eyes, but there’s relief there now too. It helps.

“Go and get the others,” he asks her. “Cullen, Leliana, Josephine.”

Thank the Maker that the rest of his councillors and companions had returned from the Arbor Wilds while they were off taming the dragon. If this had happened a week or two ago, he would be panicking even more.

But Cassandra doesn’t move, her hand still tight in his.

“Please? Please, Cassandra.”

“I am not leaving you.” Her voice brooks no argument, though it is not because of her usual strong, commanding tone, but the way it shakes at the edges. He cannot possibly dispute her when she sounds so _scared_.

He nods. “Then help me up?”

In all truth, he isn’t certain that his legs will hold him, but he has to try. Though her eyes are still worried, her hands are strong and sure as she helps him to stand, her arm sliding around his waist and holding him against her.

They only manage to get as far as the inner door to their quarters before they hear footsteps on the stairs beyond. He opens the door and finds all three of his advisors on the landing.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen is the first to speak.

“It’s Corypheus,” he cuts in.

“ _He_ did that?” Leliana’s brow creases in confusion. “But why?”

He can’t help the wry smile that crosses his face. “Either I close the Breach again, or it swallows the world. Simple, really.”

“But that’s madness!” Josephine interrupts. “Wouldn’t it kill him as well?”

“I do not think he cares,” Cassandra adds, her arm tightening around his waist. “He is like a child with a toy. If he can’t have the world, he would prefer that no one did.”

The three advisors exchange glances.

“We… we have no forces to send with you,” Cullen apologises, guilty, though Brennan cannot fathom why. “We must wait for them to return from the Arbor Wilds. It should only be a few more days. A week, at most.”

He shakes his head, regretting it a little as a dizzy feeling surges in his mind. “I must go _now_ , before it’s too late.”

They exchange glances again.

“I will take everyone who is willing to go,” he tells them, his strength returning to him as he realises what he must do. “My companions, that is, and a few of the scouts and soldiers already here in the castle. You were accompanied back from the Wilds with a squad, weren’t you?”

Cullen brightens at this. “Of course, Inquisitor, I am sure they will be-“

“They will stay here. As will you.”

He is met with frowns.

“Inquisitor?”

“I cannot… I cannot be certain that this – Corypheus opening the Breach – is not a ruse. A trap. That he is not waiting for us to charge off, just as we did to the Arbor Wilds, leaving Skyhold ripe for conquest. A failsafe, should I manage to close the Breach. I cannot guarantee that he wouldn’t rob us of our home here, just as he did Haven. In that eventuality, I would need people here, people that I trust to be able to defend it.”

Leliana is the first to react. “Wisely put, Inquisitor.”

There is no small amount of pride in her tone, and it makes him feel yet stronger and more certain in his convictions.

“Can you gather the others in the war room? Cassandra and I will be down presently.”

Cullen attempts to linger even as the two ladies depart immediately, but at Cassandra’s tight nod, he follows them down the stairs. When all three have passed through the outer door, leaving it shut behind them, Cassandra turns to him, her arm shifting from his waist so she can take both of his hands in hers.

“You have not changed your mind, I trust?”

He shakes his head. “I need you by my side. If he is at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, if this is to be our final confrontation, I _need_ you by my side.”

She rests her forehead against his, taking a moment before she places his hands on her waist and snakes her arms around his neck, holding him close.

“I will not let him take you from me.”

It feels like years, like ages, since she told him that for the first time, only a few steps away from here, even though it has only been a matter of a few months. He remembers it vividly, not wanting her to leave, to break their fragile sanctuary and return to the real world. It feels like that again now. As soon as they cross the threshold into the Hall, he must be their Inquisitor, their Herald. He must lead. He must save the world, again.

But for now, he takes just one more moment for themselves, capturing her lips with his, his eyes drifting shut as he tries to return her promise without the need for words.

Soon enough, however, the sound of boots on stone flags echoes from beyond the door.

When Cassandra pulls back, hints of her previous fear still linger in her eyes, but the rest of her countenance is sure and steady.

“To work,” she says softly. Not a question.

He nods.

The war room is full and loud with whispered conversation when they arrive. He glances around the table as they all fall silent, watching, waiting for him to speak. So many faces. People he could not possibly have imagined meeting only two or three years before today, but, yet, people he could not possibly imagine being _without_ now.

“Before I start,” he begins, wishing he’d had a little time to prepare this, to rehearse it in his head. “I want to thank all of you for what you’ve done for the Inquisition. For what you’ve done for _me_.” Rainier’s gaze drops away, and he fixes his attention specifically on the warrior as he repeats himself. “ _All_ of you. I don’t know what I would have done without you all. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here, that’s for sure. So believe me when I say, _I_ believe this is our final stand. _I_ believe this is where we will end Corypheus for good. And, if I had the choice, I would have all of you at my side. But… I can’t make that decision for you. I can’t guarantee what will happen with the Breach, with the archdemon, with… well, any of it. You are welcome to stay here and guard Skyhold if you would prefer, but…”

Bull clears his throat, a near-deafening sound in the lull that follows his hesitation, and then steps up to the war table.

“Nice speech, boss, but you’re mad if you think you’re leaving us behind.”

“I quite agree,” Dorian adds, taking a step forward too and resting his hand on the Bull’s arm.

Then, while all he can do is watch, mute and amazed, the others follow suit.

“What kind of biographer would I be if I missed the climax?”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, darling.”

“I told you I’d serve you as long as I can.”

“Coryphy-shitheel is going down!”

“Gods do not fall gracefully. You may need my help.”

“Some doors should stay shut.”

Cassandra is the last to step up, warmth in her eyes as she reaches for his hand. “I trust that you do not need to hear _my_ answer.”

He can’t help but grin. Though he had _hoped_ that they would all join him for this, hopefully last and decisive move, he hadn’t had the heart to believe it might be true. But, if he thinks about it, this is almost as much their fight as it is his. Just because he is the one with the glowing mark on his hand does not mean that they have fought beside him all this time for nothing.

“Th… _thank_ you,” he manages, his voice cracking just the tiniest bit despite his best efforts. “We will need to leave as soon as possible. Would… would an hour be enough time for you to make your preparations?”

They exchange a few glances, a few nods.

“I want to send an advance party before us. Just a few scouts, the fewer the better. Subtle. Leliana, could you…?”

“Consider it done,” she interrupts, with her usual enigmatic smile.

“There are already a few soldiers in the area,” Cullen adds. “Just a handful. They’ve been stationed there since… well, since the Breach was closed the last time. If they yet live, they will be of aid to the scouts. And to you, of course.”

He frowns, just slightly. Though the deployment of the soldiers is, of course, Cullen’s domain, he hadn’t been aware that there was anyone stationed there. But it does make sense, and so much had happened in the immediate period after they arrived at Skyhold… perhaps the issue had come across the war table, and he had simply forgotten. No matter.

Hopefully, as Cullen had said, they do still live.

He takes a breath, preparing to dismiss his companions and get to the business of leaving the fortress, and then Bull speaks again.

“Cullen also said you’re leaving a force here, to protect the castle. I’ll leave my boys with them. They’re good in a tight spot.”

He nods, though it wasn’t a question. “I’m sure they will be valuable.”

The commander catches his eye, giving him a slow nod behind Bull’s back, which Brennan hopes is a promise that the mercenary company will be all right. After what had happened at the Storm Coast with the failed Qunari alliance, he would hate for them to succeed in destroying Corypheus only to return and find the Chargers gone.

“Well, darling, if there is nothing else?” Vivienne, closest to the door other than Cassandra and himself, steps toward him and rests her hand lightly on his shoulder for a moment. “We really should get started.”

He finds himself flustered again, distracted by the images in his head. “Oh, yes, of… of course. Shall we meet at the stables in an hour?”

More nods, and they begin to file out.

*

The journey down the Frostbacks to the temple seems to pass in a flash. Perhaps it’s the nerves, or the novelty, or the nostalgia. He hasn’t travelled with this many people since they did this journey in reverse, finding Skyhold for the first time. Without meaning to, he catches Solas’ eye, letting the elf’s placid smile ease his own discomfort. But the ease is only momentary.

Before, he was saving all their lives by leading them out of the blizzard to the hidden fortress, and now… now, he might be leading them all to their deaths.

He doesn’t want to think that way, he really doesn’t, but he can’t help the little voice in his head that is repeating it over and over again. Not Mythal, not any of the voices from the Well, thank the Maker. Just his own quiet internal monologue, reminding him that if he had managed to stop Corypheus at Haven, or in the Temple of Mythal, this would all already be over.

How many lives would have been saved if he had? How many wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, sisters and brothers? How many of the scouts and soldiers, that even now are riding with and ahead of him down the mountains, have lost friends and relations and lovers to this war he has not yet managed to stop…

“You are thinking so loudly, it is practically deafening.”

Cassandra’s voice, solid and steady, breaks through his musing.

“Sorry,” he apologises, softly. “I don’t mean to.”

She reaches over, catching his hand away from the reins of his horse and lacing her fingers with his as they draw to a halt at the edge of the valley. “A copper for your thoughts?”

He forces himself to smile, squeezing her hand in a manner he hopes is reassuring. “Oh, I’m not sure they’re worth that much. You can have them for free. Just… worrying. You know how I am.”

She brings his hand up to her mouth, laying a kiss on his knuckles, so reminiscent of his own usual behaviour that it brings a genuine smile to his lips.

The sound of a soft but pointed throat-clearing brings his attention back to their surroundings, but to his gratitude, Cassandra keeps their hands linked. A single point of comforting contact between them.

He looks down, seeing Scout Harding in front of them, a couple of other scouts at her shoulders.

“He’s here,” she says, simply.

All these months, these years, he’s always thought that Harding must be fearless. No matter where he journeys, what new area he travels to, she is always there to greet him and explain their main points of concern. She might grumble about the environment or the local wildlife or whatever, but she is _always_ there. Somehow, seeing her here, even _knowing_ that she had been sent with the advance party, it makes this whole thing feel… normal. Just another expedition.

“And the archdemon?” he asks.

She nods. “They’re both in the temple.”

“The soldiers?”

She nods again. “Holding ground. Luckily, he seems to be more concerned with ranting about the Maker than actually attacking anyone.”

As if on cue, the sound of energy sparking fills the air, and they look up just in time to see a blast of red light flash above the temple. Quickly, he pulls away from Cassandra, slipping from his horse.

One of the scouts steps forward.

“I’ll look after the mounts, your worship. I think you’re needed.”

Usually, he’d stop for a moment, get the scout’s name, thank them, but he’s right, there is no time to lose. The others dismount too, and they break into a run toward the temple.

When they arrive, only moments later, it is to a scene of near-carnage. Corypheus is standing in a half-collapsed archway, the orb floating in a veil of crackling red energy above his outstretched hand. Demons, cloaked in Fade green light, are tearing through the soldiers, though he is pleased to see that they are still, as Harding had said, holding their ground.

Without pausing, he and the rest of his companions launch into the fight, and they make quick work of the remaining demons.

Just the magister left.

“I knew you would come,” he says, making a mockery of a bow that Brennan almost returns, just for the spectacle of it.

“It ends here, Corypheus,” he declares instead.

“And so it shall.”

The same red, crackling energy, like his own lightning magic corrupted with blood and red lyrium, explodes from his hands, and suddenly, the whole structure begins to… float? The ruins in the valley crack into pieces, some of them rising, others staying stubbornly on the ground.

All his great plans – facing Corypheus with all nine of his companions together – had clearly been for naught. Scrambling to stay upright, he takes stock of who he has left to him.

Cassandra, thank the Maker, had been at his side. He reaches out with his free hand, grasping her elbow as she gives him a determined nod.

Behind them, Varric is leaning heavily against a broken bit of wall, and Solas is getting to his feet, a look of murder on his usually passive face.

Just the three of them. Everyone else must be below, or on one of the other floating islands. He sends up a silent prayer to the Maker, to Andraste, to Justinia, that they have survived Corypheus’ machinations. If any of them have perished now, before even _reaching_ this final battle, he will never forgive himself.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, everything halts. The ruins are stationary, floating in mid-air.

“Thank the Maker,” he hears Cassandra mutter, and gives her a smile he hopes is comforting.

“You have been most successful in foiling my plans,” Corypheus continues, mockingly. “But let us not forget what you are. A thief, in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat. We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood.”

“ _I’m_ the Maker’s chosen.”

He doesn’t realise how much he believes it, truly _believes_ it, until the words erupt from his mouth. Despite the fact that all the things Corypheus had said – that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, an interloper, worthless – are things that he has thought about himself in the dark times, particularly after the events of the Fade, at every turn he has also had Cassandra’s voice in his head. The voice that tells him that he is faithful, that he is good, and that they are right to call him the Herald of Andraste.

Staring Corypheus down, he dares him to disagree, but all he does is stare back.

Then, the archdemon, dragon, whatever it is, emerges from the ruins of the temple, roaring over them. Just for a moment, a _moment_ , Brennan panics. What if Mythal’s guardian doesn’t come? Or doesn’t come fast enough? He pours his heart into a prayer, though whether it is to Andraste or Mythal, he couldn’t say.

A deafening screech fills the air, and as the archdemon launches itself from the ruins, another large form collides with it.

The guardian has come, just as Mythal promised.

“You dare!” the magister grinds out.

He allows himself a slight smile before raising his staff. Beside him, he senses Cassandra lift her sword, and, though he cannot see them, he trusts that Solas and Varric are following their example.

And so, the battle begins.


	2. Cassandra

She has known fear in her life. Has known pain, and terror, and shock. Though her usual response to stress is to fight harder; to help, to hunt, to _harm_ , she has known the feeling of blood draining from her heart, the strength draining from her limbs.

Her parents’ execution.

Her brother’s murder.

The Conclave explosion.

And yet, somehow, none of those events can hold a candle to the moment that the temple ruins fall, and she is certain, _certain_ , that they are going to die. She is thrown as the world drops away, rolling sideways until, by the grace of the Maker, a slab of masonry blocks her path and halts her.

When everything settles at last, she lies there, still and aching, for far too long, without the strength or the heart to move. There are broken ribs beneath her cuirass; three, if she had to guess. Blood oozing where a sharp rock had split the leather of her leggings and the skin beneath. Her wrist throbs where it had collided with the ground, and she supports it gingerly against her chest as, eventually, she forces herself up and onto her tender, protesting knees, pulling off her now-dented helmet one-handed.

He had been at the _epicentre_ as the rocks fell.

Wearing enchanter leathers and a breastplate of the thinnest layer of silverite that Harritt could beat out. All the protection that he could stand to wear and still be capable of casting.

There is so little chance that he is still alive. It feels pointless to think any different.

But it is not in her nature to do _nothing_.

“Please,” she begs silently, foregoing formal prayers for a desperate, desolate plea. “Please. Andraste… _Please_. He is your herald, I know this, but don’t take him from me. _Please_. Not now. Not after all we’ve been through. _Please_.”

She repeats it, and repeats it, until there is nothing else left in her head but the words.

And then…

There is the sound of footsteps. She resists opening her eyes, repeating her prayer over and over again in her head. While her eyes are closed, it _could_ be him. She does not know what she will do when she opens them, and finds that it _isn’t_.

“Cassandra?”

It’s his voice, but it’s too much to ask that she is really hearing it. Perhaps she had hit her head harder than she knew. Even so, she takes a deep breath, feeling the pain of her ribs stabbing as she forces her eyes open.

The smoke clears.

She sees him.

Alive. Upright. Walking, strong and tall.

“Brennan!”

His name bursts from her lips before she can stop herself, before she can convince herself it is just a mirage, and then, suddenly, impossibly, he is _there_ , dropping to his knees in front of her and cradling her face in his hands.

She cries.

In any other situation, she’d hate herself for it, for such a show of weakness, but she’s so happy to see him, to be near him, that she can’t help it. Before too long, there are tears in his eyes as well.

“I… I cannot believe you are alive,” she manages to say, her throat feeling raw with more than just the exertion of talking.

A grin, perfect and joyous, crosses his face. “I need to do something _very_ nice for Commander Helaine. Her endless barrier drills. I cast one without even thinking.” One of his hands moves from her cheek to her waist, pulling her against himself, and his smile falters for a moment as she can’t hide her wince as he half-crushes her arm between them. “I wish I’d been able to catch _you_ in one. Are you… how badly are you injured?”

A year ago, she would have brushed him off immediately, told him that she was fine, waited for a healing potion from one of the scouts. Her own last one was used up in the fight against the archdemon. If it were anyone but him, even now, perhaps she would do the same. But she finds that she cannot deny him his concern. Not now. Not here.

Without words, she directs his attention to her injured wrist, and then to the right side of her chest. The leg wound can wait.

Tenderly, he helps her to sit back against the masonry, and then unbuckles her gauntlet with gentle but expert fingers. The thought that, even six months ago, he wouldn’t have known how to do that, makes her smile. He misses it, his concentration too focussed on her injuries.

“Broken wrist. And a finger too,” he says, after a moment’s examination, laying her arm carefully down on her thigh while he roots around in the pouches on his belt.

“Last one,” he says, withdrawing a familiar red vial and uncorking it in one smooth motion.

Oh.

Something in her is damnably disappointed that he isn’t going to heal her himself. A small, stupid voice. Not that he should be, she argues back against it. He had been through just as much of a fight as she had, had likely expended as much energy, if not more, in that final fight against Corypheus. The image of him opening that tiny, perfectly placed rift _within_ the magister, comes to mind. It must have required a _great_ deal of mana, especially after closing the Breach himself. She should not be so selfish.

She takes the vial from his hand and swallows the contents under his watchful eye.

The effect of the potion spreads through her. Not as quickly as it does in the heat of battle, aided by her adrenaline, but fast enough. Her breathing begins to ease as her ribs fit back into place, and her wrist floods hot with pain for a moment before that eases too.

When she looks up, he is wiping his lips, another vial empty in his hand.

“Are you…” she starts. “You were shielded, you said.”

He frowns for a fraction of a second, and then grins, shaking the empty vial slightly. “Lyrium potion. So you don’t tell me off for wasting my mana.”

She opens her mouth to disagree with him, but... he _is_ correct. It has happened several times before. But that does not stop her from giving him a soft, apologetic smile as he picks up her hand again, gently cradling it in his own.

The potion has already mended the breaks, but her wrist and finger are still swollen and throbbing. He gently lays his free hand over hers, her eyes slipping shut as the familiar warmth spreads through her bruised flesh. Before she knows it, the pain is gone entirely, her hand and arm back to their usual state. The warmth fades too, though he does not release her. Her eyes drift open again as he presses a kiss to her no-longer bruised knuckles.

“Believe me, if I had my way, I’d lay you bare right here and clear every single scratch,” he tells her, promise in his tone. “But we really should check on the others, if you can stand? I’d carry you, but I don’t think that’s really the image you want Varric to immortalise in his next bestseller.”

She can’t help but smile at him. “It is admirable that you think Varric will not write exactly what he wants, no matter what may have happened in truth.”

He grins back at her. “Well, if you _want_ to be a damsel in distress…”

In one, swift, head-spinning motion, he suddenly scoops her into his arms and stands. How he manages to lift her, in full armour, she has no idea, but he manages it.

Her surprise does not last long, however, as, almost immediately, he stumbles backward, the arm beneath her knees buckling and slipping. She twists as the lower half of her body falls, landing somewhat awkwardly on her own boots, his arm still around her back.

“That… that didn’t go how I pictured it,” he says.

This time, she can’t help but laugh, curling into him to stifle it against his shoulder. He pulls back from her with a panicked look on his face.

“Maker, sorry, I didn’t… I forgot you were injured. Are you… all right?”

She takes a moment to check, given that he’d never forgive himself if his actions had inadvertently caused her to start bleeding again. But everything feels fine, so she gives him a gentle smile instead.

“No harm done,” she assures him.

He shifts, dropping his hands to her waist and resting his forehead lightly against hers. “Glad to hear it. I don’t… I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost you now.”

“Nor I.”

Before she can say anything else, he tilts his head, kissing her softly. Almost chaste. She can taste the promise in it, the relief. But it only lasts a moment.

“If we don’t go and find the others now, I… I don’t…” he stumbles over the words and then trails off.

She nods, smiling. “I understand. Later.”

“Later.”

As it happens, the rest of their party, all the rest of his companions, have escaped mostly unscathed. She sees the tell-tale rips in their leathers, the dents in their armour, that suggest that she is not the only one who has had to benefit from healing potions and magic, but there is not a one of them who is not standing and moving under their own power.

She breathes a sigh of relief that she did not know she was holding.

“And our hero returns,” Varric says, breaking the silence with a smirk. “Thank the Maker. Tragedies never sell as well as a happy ending.”

Brennan returns a grin. “Well, I’m glad to have saved your bottom line, as well as the world.”

“And the sky is healed, healthy… whole,” Cole adds, his head tipped back. “There’s just that left to remember.”

She follows his line of sight with the rest of them, gazing up at the space where the Breach had been. A shimmering aurora is all that remains, reminding her a little of the mark on Brennan’s hand. Without thinking, she reaches out, and that hand slips into hers.

“Looks that way,” Brennan agrees.

“What do we do now?” she asks.

There’s a moment of pure, peaceful silence while he clearly considers how to reply, glancing around at not only their companions, but at the ruins of the temple around them. More ruined now, of course.

“We go back to Skyhold.”

*

Despite Brennan’s declaration, they do not make the journey back immediately.

No matter how much all of them want to return to the fortress, to seeing those that had been left behind and finally _celebrating_ the way they have wanted to since… well, since this whole saga began, there is no doubt that they all require a night of rest before making the trek back up the mountains.

Though she would be happy enough in a tent, even tonight, Harding disappears for an hour or so while they are packing up the remainder of the supplies and dealing with the bodies of the blessedly few victims of the demons that Corypheus had summoned, and when she returns, she has the details of an inn not far away that usually serves passing travellers and pilgrims.

“Beds enough for ten,” she tells them, a distinctly smug smile on her face. “Though you will all have to share rooms.” Then, in a teasing undertone, she adds, “doubt that’ll be a problem for _some_ of you.” Before anyone can question this, however, she turns to the small group of scouts and soldiers still clustered nearby. “And just as a bonus, enough pallets set up in the main room by the fireplace for those of us _without_ fancy titles. No need for tents!”

What few terrible, churlish feelings she possesses evaporate in the face of their joy.

When they get to the inn, it is all as Harding had promised. A collection of pallets with copious blankets and pillows on the ground floor, a roaring fire in the fireplace, and then five bedrooms in the upper part, each with a decently large bed.

She envisions arguments erupting about the sleeping arrangements, but to her not-insignificant disbelief, everyone seems perfectly happy to share. Herself and Brennan, of course, is no surprise, nor is Bull and Dorian. That Varric is happy to bed down with Cole makes a sort of sense in her head; they have become rather close in the months since Cole began to feel more human.

But then…

“I’m with Beardy,” Sera declares.

Though she expects some push back from Rainier, he simply nods, as if it is a foregone conclusion. She… chooses not to ask.

And that leaves Vivienne with Solas. Not a natural pairing, perhaps, but…

Come to think of it…

“Has anyone _seen_ Solas?” she asks, looking around.

She could have sworn that he had been present at the temple after, well… after, with everyone else. Surely, she would have noticed if he were not. Eight is not so terribly high a number to count to make certain that all their companions had, indeed, made it through the battle unscathed.

Brennan clears his throat beside her, a little sheepish.

“He wasn’t… he was rather upset. I saw him after the explosion, before I found you. The orb broke in the final confrontation, and he… well, yes, as I said, he was rather upset. I suppose he’s probably gone to get some air, to dream in a cave or whatever he does to relax.”

She nods.

In all honesty, though they have been living and working and fighting together for so long, she always felt like the apostate had kept himself… apart from the others. He had never joined in their games of Wicked Grace, or the sparring tournaments, or the many other little divertissements that had become ever more frequent as the weeks and months at Skyhold had drawn on, until this final battle.

“Well, I certainly don’t mind having a room to myself,” Vivienne says, her tone as haughty as ever although Cassandra can hear a definite undercurrent of fatigue within it. “Lace, dear, did you manage to procure refreshments as well as bedding?”

Hearing Harding’s first name throws her for a little bit of a loop, which irks her, but she shakes it off, especially when the dwarf rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.

“What kind of girl do you take me for?”

A pleasant looking woman, round in the well-fed way of inn-keepers all over Thedas, bustles out of a door near the back of the room, a large tray of varied drinks in her hands.

“Any thirsty heroes about?” she asks, a joyous smile on her face.

And the matter of Solas is all but forgotten.

*

When everyone has mostly finished eating, and are lolling about with yet more drinks in front of the fire, Harding slips into a corner, unrolling a small scroll of parchment on the table in front of her. The initial report for Leliana, Cassandra supposes, turning her attention away from the scout and back to Varric, who is giving everyone a dramatic ‘reading’ of the first, hastily scribbled down during dinner, retelling of the battle against the archdemon. It involves rather more daring heroism than she remembers, but as more than half of his embellishments seem to be directed at complimenting her, she will let it slide.

Brennan, who she has been lying partly next to and partly on, pushes gently at her thigh.

“Mind if I get up just for a moment? Need to add something to Harding’s letter.”

She frowns at him. It will only be the merest confirmation of what she assumes Leliana has already realised – that the Breach is closed and Corypheus is dead. They are less than a day’s ride away from Skyhold. Anything further can be told to their Spymaster, and the rest of those left behind, in person tomorrow.

“Just a little note,” he adds, something resembling guilt crossing his face for a moment before he hides it behind a grin.

Suspicious.

A warning about Solas, perhaps? Or something else that had happened in the immediate aftermath of the explosion, when she had been clawing herself back together and pleading for his life?

But he doesn’t seem in the mood to share anything further, so she lifts herself off and away from him, allowing him to get to his feet.

She tracks his steps across the room to Harding’s table, watches their whispered conversation, Harding’s expression turning from perplexed to apprehensive to resigned, and then, after looking over his shoulder as he adds a line or two to her note, back to perplexed.

Also suspicious.

They talk a little more, in hushed voices. She strains to hear them, but, with Varric’s passionate declaiming of his tale, and the low din of noise from the back room of the inn, she can’t understand a single word from either of them.

Harding looks up, catching her watching them, and she quickly turns her head, pretending that she has been listening to Varric the whole time (and hoping that Harding takes the flush in her cheeks as a consequence of the wine she has been drinking this evening).

Before too much longer, Brennan returns. However, instead of slipping back into his previous position, he holds out his hand for hers.

“Early night?” he asks, a gleam in his eye.

She glances around, but no one seems to be paying them much mind, so she lets him help her up.

Their room is the nicest in the place. A perk of rank, Brennan had said, when they were shown to it before dinner. _Hers_ , not his, he had then clarified, dancing away when she reached out to gently punch him in the arm.

It’s nothing _too_ special, of course. The only furniture inside is a bed and a large chest of drawers with a pitcher of water and a shallow bowl on top of it. There’s a painting in a frame above the bed; the Temple of Sacred Ashes in all its former glory. She suspects the pilgrims who used to frequent this inn must have appreciated it, but all she can see is the ruins now left behind.

Brennan runs a light and tickling finger down her spine, making her jump and whirl round to face him, (and thoroughly distracting her from anything else that might be in the room).

“What was that for?” she asks, trying not to sound affronted.

He grins at her. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Am I forgiven?”

She narrows her eyes for a moment, but then his expression turns to utter anguish and she can’t help but comfort him, reaching up to cradle his cheek in her hand. He melts at her touch.

“I believe I promised you a little more healing, didn’t I?” he says, dropping his hands to her hips.

The words are still somewhat branded into her brain, and so she repeats them. “Lay me bare and clear every single scratch?”

An ever-so-slight blush colours his cheeks. “Yes, those… that _was_ what I said, wasn’t it?”

There’s a knock on the door. A polite, unassuming knock.

He blushes a little deeper and clears his throat.

“I was assuming I’d have a little more time to run this past you, make it look terribly romantic. But, uh…”

He breaks away to answer the door, and her hand is left floating in mid-air. She hastily pulls it back, clasping them both behind her back.

“Under the window, your worship?” the landlady asks.

“Please.”

Carefully, he manoeuvres them both backward toward the bed to give the landlady room to drag a large wooden tub into the room. Once it is settled under the window, as he had requested, she calls out, and two uncomfortable looking lads enter, buckets of steaming water in either hand.

A _bath_.

He has procured her a _bath_.

When the tub is filled, and a tray of variously sized bottles has been retrieved and placed on the chest of drawers, Brennan tries to give the landlady a handful of silver, but she waves it away with a smile.

“Can’t be taking your money, your worship. What you’ve done is payment enough. And…” she hesitates a little. “What I said, before. You’re sure you don’t mind?”

He gives her a wide smile. “Please. It would be my _honour_.”

She ducks a curtsey. “You’ll be telling me if you need anything else? There’s more linens in the drawer. All fresh, mind.”

“You have done quite enough, thank you,” he assures her.

With another ducked curtsey, she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Cassandra finally speaks, staring in amazement at Brennan.

“When… When did you…?”

He blushes. “During dinner, when I went to check on the horses? I asked one of the boys if such a thing could be had, and he asked the landlady and she was only too pleased to help me out.”

“And what did she ask in return?”

“Oh… yes.” His blush deepens, spreading to his ears. “She has decided to do a little… rebranding, in the wake of, well, everything. Said that when word got out that the Inquisition had stayed at their inn, especially the day of the Breach being sealed again; the pilgrims would come flocking. So she asked if she might take advantage; rename the inn after us, perhaps put up some signs on the bedroom doors too.”

“Another Herald’s Rest, perhaps?” she suggests, smiling.

“Perhaps! We should put her in touch with Cabot when we get back tomorrow. They could start a franchise.” He turns his attention to the bath. “Was it a nice surprise after all?”

She can’t believe he even has to ask.

Gently, she cradles his cheek again, pressing her forehead against his. “That is rather an understatement, my love.”

He pauses, basking in her love for a moment, and then pulls back from her, his expression joyous once more. “Well, then, come along. Before the water cools.”

They are both well aware that he could easily heat it up again for her, but she chooses not to point this out, instead beginning to unfasten her gambeson while he wanders over to the chest of drawers and begins uncorking the two smallest bottles from the tray, sniffing at each in turn.

“None of your fancy Antivan stuff, unfortunately,” he apologises, “but I think you’ll be all right. What would you prefer?” He holds up one bottle. “Flowers?” And then the other. “Or spices?”

Stripping off her sweaty and torn leggings, she really doesn’t much mind, and she tells him so.

He gives her a considering sort of look, and then brings both bottles to his nose before sprinkling a little of each into the water and swishing it about with his hand.

Soon enough, she finally makes it into the blissfully warm water, her eyes slipping closed as her muscles begin to loosen. The mixture of the oils is… a little unorthodox, but delightful, and the tub is only a _little_ smaller than the one she has been accustomed to using at Skyhold. Plenty large enough for one, and…

“Wine, my lady?”

It takes a moment to convince herself to open her eyes, but when she does, he’s kneeling beside the tub with a cup in his hand and a soft smile on his face.

“I’d rather have some company.”

“I’m right here…” The realisation dawns, and his smile turns a little wolfish, one hand drifting to the fastening of his tunic. “If you insist?”

“I _do_.”

She can’t think of anything she wants more.


	3. Brennan

It doesn’t truly sink in – that Corypheus is dead, that the Breach is sealed, that the day is saved – until they return to Skyhold, and it’s _him_ calling for a War Council meeting that his councillors are all reluctant to attend.

“You should be basking in your victory, Inquisitor,” Leliana chides him softly as he closes the door behind them. “At least for one day. Afterwards, you will be busy. Every noble in Southern Thedas is clamouring to meet you.”

He can’t help but laugh. “Oh, _now_ they’re lining up to meet me?”

“Such is the way of things. Previously, you were an upstart – a mage of all things – leading rebels and heretics. Until Corypheus revealed himself, they could not see the single hand behind the chaos. Once he did, they knew. A magister and a darkspawn in one creature. The ultimate evil. Now, _you_ are the only power left standing. Well… you and the new Divine.”

He steels himself. “They’ve made their decision?”

“We received the news shortly before you arrived,” Josephine explains, holding up a small slip of paper with an ostentatiously large seal attached to it. “The official announcement has not yet been made, though I suspect it shall follow soon. Your victory promises that. They cannot deny us now.”

Though he knows, no matter what that message might say, he will _not_ lose her, his stomach is in knots.

“And?”

They glance between themselves, and he starts rehearsing the rebuttal in his head. The clever arguments he will make against the decision, the diplomatic way he’ll tell the Chantry to bugger off…

Then Leliana grins. The widest smile he’s seen from her in… well, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look _so happy_.

“Me,” she says, modestly.

His head _spins_ with relief, his knees almost buckling with it, and he has to throw out a hand to lean against the war table to keep himself from slumping to the floor. With one simple syllable, a weight he didn’t even realise he was carrying is lifted from his shoulders.

“Congratulations,” he manages to say, the air all but gone from his lungs.

Cullen gives him a sympathetic smile, but Josephine stifles a giggle behind her hand, ducking behind her ever-present board.

“I am certain that your… _effusive_ recommendation was foremost in their minds, Inquisitor,” Leliana adds, her eyes glittering.

He… he hadn’t shown her that. Hadn’t even told her that he was doing it. But she was clearly the best candidate other than Cassandra, and it seemed like a better idea to promote one of them rather than argue against the other. And it had clearly worked. However, he should have known that nothing happened in Skyhold – in _Thedas_ – without his Spymaster knowing about it.

“You’re… welcome?”

She only smiles.

“Truly though, Leliana, I am so happy for you. Or, I suppose, should I be addressing you by title now? Most Holy? Must you leave soon?”

She makes a dismissive hand gesture. “I am merely elected, Inquisitor, not yet crowned. Though _you_ may continue to use my name in private even after that. And no, I will have a little time to stay and make certain that the Inquisition can continue in my absence.”

“I’m glad. Not... not about the continuing. The staying. The fortress is going to seem so empty when people start leaving. I’m not looking forward to it.”

Her smile softens. “Well, I shall have Josie make the announcement in a few days, or perhaps a little later. When matters have settled down.”

He frowns. That doesn’t make any sense.

“No. We’ll announce it at the party, surely? When everyone is around to celebrate with you. Unless… Sorry, sorry, this is _your_ news. If you don’t want to make a big fuss, you don’t have to. But please do not feel like you must play down such news on my account.”

Leliana exchanges a quick glance with Cullen, who quirks his eyebrow in an unmistakable ‘I told you so’. Josephine’s face has gone back to her usual impassive smile, but she too seems smug.

“I would not want to distract from your victory,” Leliana demurs.

“It’s… it’s not _my_ victory,” he protests. “This victory belongs to all of us.”

“I believe you owe me some silver, Lady Montilyet,” Cullen says, looking triumphant.

Brennan frowns again. “What?”

“Not so,” Josephine cuts in. “Your wager was that he would insist on making the announcement at the party. I have not heard him _insist_. Have you, Leliana?”

Cullen splutters a little, turning to Brennan. “You… Didn’t you?”

He wishes he could go back in time a touch and help the commander out, but he doesn’t want to try and lie. Josephine scares him more than Cullen does.

“I _suggested_ ,” he attempts. “One could even say I _assumed_ , but no, I didn’t insist. It’s Leliana’s choice when to announce her own news.”

“Be thankful it is not your trousers,” Josephine notes, smiling serenely as she holds out a hand. “Again.”

Grumpily, the commander digs in the pouch on his belt and hands over a small handful of silver coins to the ambassador.

“That said,” Brennan adds. “I can’t think of any better way to celebrate what we have done over the past years than this. From being labelled heretics and blasphemers to having our Spymaster on the Sunburst Throne? Justinia would have been so proud.”

“I believe she would, yes.”

“So…?”

Leliana bows her head. “Thank you, Inquisitor. I would be honoured.”

“Then the matter is settled. Are we all agreed?”

Josephine (still looking smug) and Cullen (still looking grumpy) both nod.

“Was there a matter _you_ wanted to discuss?” Josephine asks, glancing down at her board. “You were quite insistent on holding this meeting, and the preparations for the party are all well in hand. Though I should like to return to them as soon as possible.”

Maker. In all the commotion about Leliana, he had quite forgotten.

“Yes. Though hopefully it won’t take long. Uh, two things, actually. Or three, I suppose, depending on how you actioned my note?”

“Ahh yes, your note.” Josephine consults the board again. “Of course, I conveyed your gratitude to Commander Helaine promptly upon receipt. I believe she would prefer to hear it from you personally, however.”

Cullen nods at this.

“I don’t suppose any of you have any ideas of nice things I could do for her? She doesn’t seem the type to want a big public show of recognition, but I would like to do something better than just…” He trails off, the few notions he had come up with in the immediate aftermath of the fight slipping away from him.

“I believe I might know something she would enjoy,” Cullen says. “We can discuss it later in the week, if you wish. After the party. But Josephine is correct. A personal thank you, unassuming as that sounds, would make her very happy, I am sure.”

Though, of course, he knew that Cullen had collaborated with Helaine on their mage training programme while he had been off on his various excursions across Thedas, he hadn’t known that they’d become that close. From the few interactions he’d seen, frosty (and occasionally _fiery_ ) tolerance was the best descriptor of their association. Clearly, he was wrong.

He smiles. “Thank you. I’ll take you up on the other thing, as well, whatever it is. Very clandestine of you.”

The commander’s ears turn red, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. The two ladies exchange glances, both of them looking knowing, which worries him a little, but nevertheless, he does have something he needs to get out of the way before he turns to the most important thing on the list.

“Well, yes. The next thing on the agenda is Solas.”

Josephine makes a note on her board. “Yes, I had noticed that he did not return with you. Harding did not mention _why_ , however.”

Quickly, he explains the events immediately following the destruction of Corypheus and the fall of the temple – that the orb had broken, and despite his suggestions that they could try to fix it, Solas had been very upset.

“He slipped away while we were packing up, and clearly hasn’t arrived back here. It’s not… _uncharacteristic_ , of course, but…”

“I will have my people look into it,” Leliana promises. “He has a few favourite caves and clearings in the mountains. It is likely he will be in one of them. And if not, well, I am certain he will not be able to hide from me for long.”

The tone of her voice is just a… touch ominous, but he chooses (wisely) not to call her out on it. He had expected there to be a little more discussion, perhaps for Cullen to insist on sending a search party, or Josephine to recommend leaving him alone for a while to cool down…

But they stay silent, as if the matter is already closed.

“Thank you, Leliana,” he says, a little awkwardly.

Josephine makes another somewhat dismissive note on her board. “And the last thing on your agenda, Inquisitor?”

Right. He _had_ said there were three. He could take it back, of course, pretend he’d miscounted or something, narrow down his near endless ideas by himself, but… No. Be strong. Ask for help.

“You might remember that I asked for your help with something once before. Something… personal.”

Leliana’s eyes are glittering again in a way he does not like at all, but she feigns confusion.

“You have asked for help with several things in the past, Inquisitor. Several favours, for yourself and others. You are going to have to be more… specific.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Josephine joins in, her expression startlingly similar to the smile she wears right before declaring she has won yet another hand of Wicked Grace. “Really, Inquisitor? How would we know?”

Cullen, he notes, is remaining very quiet. It isn’t often that he appeals to the commander, man to man, so to speak, but if ever there were a time for it… He shoots him a glance that could certainly be described as ‘pleading’.

“Ladies, I’m sure we have time for teasing later,” Cullen interjects, rescuing him. “I think we all know to what the Inquisitor is referring. The more pertinent question is _what_ is he intending to do next?”

His smile must look rather foolish to his three advisors, but he doesn’t care.

“Well, you see, the thing is…”

*

When the meeting finishes, despite his eagerness to have it in the first place, he’s the first one out of the door.

The hall is full of people. Uncomfortably full. It seems like every person within a day’s ride of Skyhold headed straight for the fortress as soon as the Breach re-opened. He can’t imagine how busy it’s going to be in two or three days, when the bulk of the army has returned, and the party is set to be held.

In a further complication, it seems (understandably, unfortunately) that, now that he is not surrounded by his advisors and clearly headed to the war room, every single one of them wants to congratulate him, or ask him about the battle, or suggest further things he could deal with now that Corypheus is dealt with.

It seems that Leliana was incorrect, for once.

He doesn’t have a day.

Luckily, what he _does_ have is a mission, and therefore he brushes all of them aside and walks purposefully toward the Undercroft. The seas do not part before him, as they would in one of Cassandra’s books, unfortunately, but he reaches the door without _much_ trouble. Just a fair few outraged looks and fluttering fans.

Both Dagna and Harritt are in the forge, and he thanks the Maker for his mercy. He isn’t sure he’d be able to fight his way all the way to the armoury or the kitchens to look for them.

When he enters, they are both huddled over the workbench.

“Where’s my hammer?” he hears Harritt say. “No, not that one.”

He is about to offer his aid, when Dagna notices him.

“What can we do for you, your Inquisitorialness?” she asks brightly. “Wasn’t expecting to see you down here today. Making a royal progress of all your vassals?”

He frowns at her even as Harritt presses a long-suffering hand to his face. “Making a… _what_?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Not important. Just here to say hello, or do you need some work done?”

“The second one. Something… special. If you have time?”

“Is it true you defeated Corypheus?” Harritt asks.

He nods, only a little uncertainly.

A rare smile crosses the blacksmith’s face. “Then we’ve got time.”

“It’s something a little more… delicate than I usually ask for.”

Dagna grins. “Go on.”

He pulls a small roll of parchment out of his belt, brandishing it somewhat awkwardly. Dagna gestures to the workbench, clearing a spot free of tools and bits of metal so he has space to unroll it. When he does, she lets out a squeal that sends several birds scattering to the sky from their balcony roost.

“Sorry! This is _beautiful_. Guessing it’s for-“

“Yes,” he interrupts. “Need it by the end of the week, if that’s possible?”

“Before the party?” Harritt guesses. (Correctly.)

“Need it enchanted?” Dagna asks.

He… he hadn’t thought about that. Of course, it would be useful. And it would give her more of a reason to wear it. (Not that he’s thinking she won’t, but…) Shaking himself, he nods.

“Any requests?”

He has a hundred, if he’s honest. Dagna’s enchanting skills are unmatched, at least in his experience, and there are certainly more than a few things that she could put on such an item. There are just… too many to consider. Does he want to go for something defensive? Offensive? Not for combat at all?

His indecision must show on his face, because Dagna pats his arm comfortingly and grins again.

“I’ll work up a few options for you. It won’t take me long to put the enchantments on once you’ve picked, so, say… the night before the party?”

“Thank you,” he tells her, trying not to sound quite as desperate as he feels and knowing that he hasn’t quite succeeded.

“No problem.”

Then he turns to Harritt. “You’re… you’re sure you can make it? If you can’t, tell me now. I know it’s not your usual sort of work, and I’m sure you understand that is has to be…”

“Perfect?” Harritt finishes. “Don’t worry, Inquisitor. I’m up to the task. I’ll do some tests of the engraving for your inspection before I work on the final piece, if you like.”

He nods gratefully. “And the two materials?”

“I am up to the task.”

“They’ll work together?”

Harritt nods again, a little more definitively, and Brennan realises that he has likely well-worn-out his welcome.

“Well, I will… I’ll leave you to your work. Send me a message if you need… anything. And _obviously_ … no word to-”

“We’ve got it, Inquisitor,” Dagna says brightly, and then they both turn away to their workstations.

Hard to take that as anything other than a dismissal, so he nods, realises that they can’t see him, opens his mouth to say something, and then decides against it, slipping away out of the Undercroft.

When he returns upstairs, the crush seems to have become somehow _worse_. Though it is only usually a few steps between the door to the Undercroft and that to his quarters, the dais is filled with people. He _could_ charge through, like he had done before, and he _wants_ to, but he also feels… bad about it?

Yes, there are a great number of people in the hall. A far greater number than there had been before they closed the Breach once and for all, but, well… isn’t that the point? As Leliana had told him, it had been near impossible to see the single hand behind all the chaos of the last months, until Corypheus had been revealed and then defeated.

More than months.

Almost years.

Maker, it has been well over a year and a half since the Breach was first opened. Well over a year and a half since he had stumbled out of the Fade with Justinia’s help, or Andraste’s, or whoever that had been. Well over a year and a half since he had first been knelt before Cassandra and somehow managed to fall in love with her while she had been seriously considering removing his head from his shoulders…

No.

He can’t think about _that_ right now. Not when there are at least a dozen Orlesians close enough to be touching him, which half of them are, unfortunately.

Just a little time. He’ll spend a little time with them, while he sidles his way across the dais towards the door to his quarters.

He directs the ones who just want to hear stories toward Varric, who already has a small audience near the fireplace, hearing the second, or possibly third draft of the fight against the archdemon. The ones who have more work for him, he tells to seek out Josephine, but also warns them not to approach her until after the party. (He’ll warn her about the deluge before then, with frilly apology cakes.) But the ones who just want to congratulate him and shake his hand, he just has to deal with.

Before too long, he has lost count of the number of times he has tried to claim it is not his victory alone, that there are at least twelve others who _must_ share in it, and countless more who deserve to, but they do not want to listen.

The thought, eternally in the back of his mind, is that he doesn’t know where Cassandra slipped off to after their grand entrance. Whether she went up to their room, or had business to deal with elsewhere in the fortress. He had promised her that he wouldn’t be long with his council meeting, so he doubts she will have gone far, especially with the sheer number of people not only in the hall, but in the courtyard too.

He’s _fairly_ sure that she isn’t similarly trapped somewhere in the midst of the crowd in the hall at the moment (though she deserves the congratulations at least as much as he does, and probably quite a good deal more), partly because he cannot see her, but also because he’s quite certain that she wouldn’t have been able to resist stabbing some of the more… _enthusiastic_ Orlesians. And no one has screamed yet. Or complained about her.

He continues to edge toward his door, but just as he manages to make it past his throne…

“Oh, Inquisitor!” A buxom Orlesian lady, wearing a fur cape and enough perfume to choke someone to death, pushes her way through the crowd around him, hands grasping at his sleeve.

“Well, I was the last time I checked,” he jests, a little forced.

She doesn’t get the joke, her lips (the only part of her face he can see, due to her mask) pouting as she strokes his upper arm in a way that he does not enjoy at all.

“You aren’t trying to hide from me, are you?”

Should… should he know who she is? That’s the problem with these damn masks. Though Vivienne insists that every mask tells a lot about the person beneath it, he’s never quite managed to crack the code. Perhaps if they’d spent less time teaching him that Emperor Judicael the First was the one to rebuild the Winter Palace (a pointless piece of trivia that has never come up since), and more time teaching him which specific markings on a mask denote a Comtesse or a Vicomtesse, perhaps he’d be having better luck.

As it is, he has no idea.

Luckily, while he’s still floundering, hoping that she’ll give him an extra clue as to her identity, the door to his quarters swings open.

“There you are!”

Until the previous day, he would have said that he had never been so grateful to hear Cassandra’s voice. However, after the temple ruins had crashed to the ground, and he had been terrified that she might have perished, only to find her in the wreckage and hear her call his name, he knows that that is not strictly true anymore.

(Still, this is a _very_ close second.)

He turns, gratefully, to see her standing in the doorway, a stern expression on her face. As he does so, the lady’s hand clenches around his arm, the fabric of his tunic twisting in her grasp, and Cassandra’s expression turns flinty. Her ire, however, is thankfully not directed at him. She strides forward, the seas parting for _her_ , of course.

“She’s the one, you know,” he hears one of the twittering Orlesians say, though which, he isn’t entirely sure and doesn’t care enough to find out.

“The one what?” the buxom lady asks, focussing on him and not Cassandra.

“The only one who is allowed to _manhandle_ the Inquisitor,” she cuts in, her voice achingly commanding as she plucks the lady’s hand from his arm.

(By the twist of the lady’s mouth and the strangled squeak that emanates from it, he guesses that Cassandra isn’t being as gentle as she could be. But the lack of an actual scream suggests that she also certainly isn’t being as firm as she could be either.)

“Apologies, ladies, gentlemen, but the Inquisitor has important business to take care of,” she continues, her hand dropping to take his. “At once.”

He’s expecting more outraged twitters, but no one dares argue with her as she all but _drags_ him across the dais and through the door to their quarters, slamming it conclusively behind them.

“That was… unexpected,” he says, leaning back against the wall beside the door and pulling her close; strangely relishing the idea that, at any moment, someone could be brave enough or stupid enough to open it and reveal them very much _not_ undertaking important business.

“I cannot believe I…” she sputters; all that beautiful, jealous rage melting a little now that they are no longer in public. “I cannot believe I said such a thing.”

“I assume you are the important business?” he asks.

She frowns.

“That I have to take care of?”

She blushes.

“That was… not my intention.”

He can’t help but grin. “What was your intention?”

With his hand in hers, he lets her pull back, leading them up to their room. He smiles again when she firmly locks the inner door before joining him on the main level. They settle on the sofa in front of the fire, his arms around her.

“I intended to rescue you from what I assumed was an overlong council meeting. I did not… I had forgotten that there were so many _people_ down there.”

“You came to rescue me?”

“I find that I… I don’t like being apart from you. Not at the moment.” She sounds a little disgruntled by this realisation, but he tightens his arms around her anyway.

“I don’t like it either,” he assures her.

“What were you discussing that took so long?”

Had it really been that long? He hadn’t thought so, but perhaps the discussions with his advisors had taken longer than he imagined, and it had been difficult to make his way back from the Undercroft.

“This and that,” he hedges, unwilling to let on about their main topic of conversation. “Solas’ whereabouts, thanking Helaine, oh, and…”

He cuts himself off. Should he let Leliana announce her own news? Is letting Cassandra know overstepping his bounds? But, then again, he supposes that it is also her news: that she _hasn’t_ been elected. And despite how often she has told him that she didn’t want to be, he can’t help feeling like she may be… a little disappointed. He should tell her, shouldn’t he?

“And?” she prompts, tilting her head so she can see his face.

“We received some news. From the conclave of clerics. They have elected a new Divine.”

She stiffens in his arms, gaze slipping away from his as she steels herself just as he had done earlier that afternoon. For a heartbeat, he wonders which she is steeling herself for – to hear that she is, or to hear that she _isn’t_. Hopefully, this will be good news.

“Leliana.”

Unlike him, she doesn’t swoon immediately. There’s a moment, just a moment, where she remains tense and rigid.

“Leliana is named D-Divine?” she asks, her voice cracking.

Maker. Did he do the wrong thing? Should he have softened the blow, or given her the note and left her to deal with her feelings in her own time?

Then she shudders, and his stomach twists as she starts _crying_. Great soul-wracking sobs, curling into him, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. It all reminds him uncomfortably of their first night together, under the stars after the Crestwood dragon fight. He flounders, unsure whether she’ll appreciate him trying to comfort her, or if he should just stay silent.

But then he realises that what he had taken for sobs aren’t precisely _sobs_. Or not all of them, at least. She’s _laughing_.

“Cassandra?”

She continues for a few moments before her shoulders stop shaking quite so much, and she pushes herself back from him, hands unclenching from his coat in favour of swiping awkwardly at the tearstains on her eyes and cheeks.

“Are you… I don’t… What can I…” All he can muster are false starts as his mind races, so unbearably confused.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to try much more, as she silences him with a kiss. To his _delight_ , it doesn’t taste like a kiss goodbye. Nor like a kiss of desperation. If he’s not much mistaken, it tastes like a kiss of joy.

When she pulls back (which she does, eventually, though frankly he’d have been content to keep kissing her for the rest of time), she’s smiling. A genuine, elated smile. The breath of relief that rushes through him is almost as fierce as the one he had had on hearing Leliana’s news for the first time.

“I take it this is good news?” he offers.

She nods. “I have been… at war. My heart and my faith. Between the parts of me that wanted you too badly, and those that called myself selfish for choosing you over my duty. To hear that the matter is concluded; that I am no longer in… in _danger_ , it is… it is a relief.”

He lifts one of her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

“I’m glad.”

She smiles, bright and beautiful, and then her brow furrows. “Do you have any further business today? Any tasks that must be accomplished?”

In truth, he should go and see Commander Helaine and thank her in person, and probably also go to the kitchens and make sure that Josephine had relayed his instructions correctly. Then there’s the matter of properly acknowledging those who had stayed behind to defend Skyhold, and the sea of visitors who his advisors would probably suggest he spend a little more time mingling with… But he finds himself not wanting to be apart from Cassandra either. Not tonight, at any rate.

“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” he tells her.

She reaches over him, plucking a book from the table, and, having pressed it into his hand, lays back down, her head on his shoulder.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he teases her gently, finding the slip of leather they had last used to mark the page. “You just want me for my voice.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorts, curling into him. “You also make an excellent pillow.”

Well, he can’t disagree with that.

He starts reading.


	4. Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is without a doubt the most nerve-wracking thing I've ever posted - so I really, really hope you like it. ♥ )

He is _planning_ something, she knows it.

There is no other explanation for how secretive and jumpy he has been since their triumphant victory over Corypheus. Nor the way that he keeps disappearing. It could not possibly have taken him two hours to say thank you to Commander Helaine, nor four hours to talk to Leliana about choosing her replacement as the Inquisition’s Spymaster, nor nearly _five_ to consult with Josephine about canapes for the victory feast.

Well… perhaps that last one was not so far-fetched. Their ambassador has been particularly tense about the celebration. Not that she needs to be. So long as the food is plentiful and the drink even more so, she doubts anyone will have much to say about it.

She lets him have his space, his secrets. If he checks in with her periodically through the day, which he does, and comes to bed every night, which he does, she tries to put it out of her mind.

Before she knows it, the bells begin to ring. Usually, this particular pattern would signify that the Inquisitor and his party had been spotted on the horizon, but today, it means that the army are nearly home. Within sight of Skyhold.

There is an almighty commotion, as what seems like every person left in the fortress, resident and visitor alike, rush to greet them. She makes her way down to the drawbridge, finding Brennan at the head of the pack, right at the portcullis. He is almost vibrating with excitement, though it will likely be another half hour or so before the first soldiers reach the bridge. She slips her hand into his, and he beams down at her.

Before too much longer, the courtyard is filled with people. From the stables to the steps up to the keep, more and more as their forces return, swelling the numbers within the fortress until it feels like the walls will overflow.

And then, the following evening… the party.

It reminds her of the night they had christened the Herald’s Rest; just on a much, _much_ bigger scale. Music, light, and people spill from every corner of the fortress. Not just the keep and the tavern, but the garden and the courtyards and the towers and the battlements. Everyone desperate to celebrate. And tonight…

Tonight, they can.

Because it is _over_.

At long last… the Breach is closed, and Corypheus is gone.

It seems too much to believe.

“You are thinking far too hard.” Brennan’s voice cuts through her musing as he steps up beside her and hands her a cup of wine.

“Probably,” she agrees, forcing herself to smile back at him.

He slips his now free arm around her waist, hand settling on her hip as he pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.

In front of them, the hall is bustling with people. From her spot near the door to Josephine’s office, she can see Varric holding court, Dorian laughing with Bull and what appears to be all of the Chargers plus a dozen or so extras, and Sera sitting backward on a chair throwing grapes at Dagna’s mouth. She has no doubt that the rest of their friends are having just as much fun.

“Are you… well? Having a good time?” he asks, his voice low enough that, if it weren’t for the fact that his mouth is so close to her ear, she is certain that she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music.

She nods. “Just… finding it all hard to comprehend. It seemed an impossible task.”

He hums in agreement. “Josephine has really outdone herself, hasn’t she? She kept complaining that she’d never get it all organised in time, that she barely had time to send invitations and hire the right people, but look at it! The music and the wine, and the food… Oh, the food! Have you tried all the different tiny cakes yet? I wouldn’t recommend those dark grey ones with the glitter on top. I don’t know what was in them, but they were _disgusting_. The attendant said that they’re popular in Val Royeaux, which… says a lot about Orlesian cuisine, if you ask me. But there are some little pink ones, flavoured with rose, I think, and those were _delicious_. I had to drag myself away from the table, otherwise I would have eaten the lot.”

Not… exactly what she had been failing to comprehend, but his enthusiastic babbling makes her smile, just as it often does, so she won’t dispute it.

“No, no tiny cakes yet.”

He makes a small noise of utter dismay. “Wait here. I’ll fetch you a selection.” As he releases her, he spots Leliana approaching them, and bows deeply, spilling a little of the wine from his cup as he does so. “Most Holy!”

The Spymaster laughs. “Stop that.”

He grins happily. “The more you insist, the more fun it is, unfortunately. Enjoying the evening? I do hope you haven’t been _too_ swamped with devoted admirers.”

She waves her hand dismissively, though Cassandra has barely seen her this evening for the steady crowd of sycophants around her. “It is nothing I cannot handle.”

“I’m glad. Now, I am charged with bringing Cassandra some tiny cakes. Would our new Divine like some too?”

“No,” she says firmly, and then, more gentle, “but your _spymaster_ would love some.”

His smile softens. “As you wish, Spymaster. You wait here too.”

As he darts off, Leliana sighs. “I will miss him, when I leave.”

She nods. “He will miss you too. We all will.” They lapse into amiable silence for a few moments before she continues. “Have you given any thought as to the choosing of your Right and Left Hands? I would naturally be honoured to be considered.”

Leliana reaches out, her hand soft on Cassandra’s arm. “And I would be honoured to choose you. But I think there are places where you are more needed, no?”

Does she mean with the Inquisition, the Seekers, or Brennan? Cassandra isn’t sure and doesn’t want to ask, though she fears that her old friend has correctly guessed that she isn’t sure herself where her future lies. Though she had been overjoyed to hear that she had not been elected as Divine, and she had told Brennan as such… that voice still lingers in the back of her mind. The one that tells her that she is selfish to value her heart above her duty.

“It is not wrong to be happy, Cassandra.”

Before she can reply, she sees Brennan, weaving back through the partygoers with a plate piled high, getting distracted by Vivienne drawing him into a conversation with a similarly tall and imposing Orlesian in a vibrant green gown. He glances over Vivienne’s shoulder, catching Cassandra’s eye with an apologetic smile. Her heart sings at the sight of him.

“Perhaps you are right,” she admits.

“I am _always_ right, no?”

She narrows her eyes in mock-irritation and hopes Leliana will take it as such. “Do not push your luck. Most Holy or not.”

Leliana laughs. “Let me go and rescue our Inquisitor from the clutches of the Game. You will think on what I have said?”

She nods.

With a final squeeze of her arm, the Spymaster departs.

A few moments later, a significant portion of the cakes having been swiped from the plate, Brennan returns.

“We’ve been invited to a hunt, I think,” he tells her. Then he tilts his head. “Or, possibly, that woman wanted to hunt _me_. To be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention. Either way, I don’t think we’ll attend. Now, cakes!”

She lets him choose various confections from the plate, tasting them obediently, but she barely notices the flavours, her mind still working too fast, too full of thoughts. And then, before she knows it, the plate, and her cup, are empty, and he is removing them both, handing them to a passing attendant with a grateful smile.

When he has done so, he bows again. She glances around, trying to figure out who else he is teasing, when he extends his hand.

“May I have this dance, Lady Cassandra?”

For the space of a _heartbeat,_ she thinks about making a joke: something along the lines of not being sure there’s room for them to have a sparring match in such a crowded hall. But she doesn’t. Instead, she takes his hand.

“It would be my pleasure.”

His grin outshines the very sun as he leads her down to the dance floor.

There are a few couples already dancing, but she barely pays them any attention as Brennan wraps his arm around her waist and draws her close. The music is slow and soft, nothing like Maryden’s lively jigs that they had sparred to on the night they christened the Herald’s Rest, nor the frilly Orlesian piece they had danced to on the balcony of the Winter Palace.

She’d been so self-conscious that night. Feeling so out of place in all the silks and satins, without her usual armour. Still stinging with unwelcome jealousy that his first dance had been with the duchess, even though he had asked her earlier and she had rejected him. Frustrated from having to play the Game and endure Celene remaining on her throne.

( _More_ frustrated from not being able to drag Brennan into one of those ridiculous bedrooms.)

Now, however, all she cares about is how good it feels to be in his arms, warm and safe.

The song eventually comes to an end, and she almost sighs, not wanting this moment to end too, but before she can say a word, the musicians strike up again, and Brennan laughs, changing his hold on her. He curves his hand from her waist to between her shoulder blades and holds her hand out to the side, his back straight.

“I know this one!”

Though she can’t say the same, the joy in his eyes is infectious and she lets herself be swept into a new and more lively dance.

To her delight, it turns out that his leading skills have improved as much on the dance floor in the recent months as they have on the battlefield, and he spins them both around the other couples with an ease that she would envy if she weren’t directly benefiting from it.

“This is a Marcher tune,” he tells her, voice somehow steady, as he spins her out under his arm in time with the music. “I used to watch people dancing to it at Great-Aunt Lucille’s parties. One of Evie’s favourites. I think I was eight the first time she made me learn it to partner her.”

“She would have been… eleven?”

He nods, grinning. “And more than a good foot taller than me. We must have been such a sight! I couldn’t lift my arm high enough to twirl her, not even on my tiptoes. She was so grumpy.”

“Didn’t she dance with Max?”

At this, he laughs, tipping his head back. “Oh, no. Definitely not. At thirteen, Max was firmly of the opinion that girls were some manner of demon. Especially sisters. He had changed his mind by fifteen, of course, but by then Evie had a dance instructor. Giovanni, I think his name was. Or Giulio, or something like that. From Antiva. But he spent more time flirting with the twins’ governess than giving anyone dance lessons.”

They lapse into companionable silence as the dance continues, getting more frenetic, until suddenly he leans forward, his voice low and delighted.

“I think I’ve figured out Cullen’s mystery romance.”

She frowns. But, come to think of it, she doesn’t think she’s seen hide nor hair of Cullen all evening, not since the opening speeches and Leliana’s announcement. There had been so much going on that she hadn’t marked his absence.

“When I turn, look past Bull into the corner of the room,” he tells her, before, as promised, whirling them both around so their points of view switch places.

Cullen is easy to spot, in the dark corner at the front of the hall as Brennan had said, his large bear fur collar standing out even in the shadows of the candlelight. He is deep in very intimate conversation with a smaller figure, her features harder to discern. Pointed ears, so an elf, and in fine enchanter robes, but… She frowns.

Brennan is still grinning at her, and, again, he leans forward a little to whisper in her ear.

“ _Commander Helaine_.”

Now that he says it, she cannot believe she didn’t recognise her at once, and she cranes her neck a little to keep them in sight for just an extra few seconds as the dance takes them away again.

“You really didn’t know?” she asks.

He shakes his head, spinning her under his arm again and then pulling her a little closer than the hold had previously allowed. “Although it does explain why he seemed so confident about how I should thank her. And why she’s been in such a good mood recently…”

She can’t help but laugh a little. Not because she finds anything inherently comical about the pairing of the two commanders. Indeed, thinking about it, they seem remarkably well-matched.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just thinking about all the times that he complained to me about her taking over the training fields and disrupting the morning drills with her mages. About how reckless and stubborn she was.”

He grins back at her. “I’m sure you’ve said far worse to him about me in your time.”

She opens her mouth to deny it, and then… no, that is a fair assessment. The words spoilt, absent-minded and _exhausting_ , spring to mind.

Instead, she presses forward, stealing a kiss before he whirls them around again.

“In which case, I find that I wish them as much happiness as I have found with you.”

The look in his eyes turns molten at that, and she almost trips over their collective feet as he draws them to an unexpected halt in the middle of the dance floor. Though he had had no trouble keeping his breath through the flurry of the dance, he doesn’t seem to be able to quite catch it now.

“Brennan?” she asks, concerned.

He takes her hand, bringing it to his lips for an achingly slow kiss before he speaks again.

“I meant to do this later, when everything was winding down, but… do you mind leaving the party early? I want to steal you away.”

She has no idea what he is referring to, other than that she _suspects_ this has something to do with the reason he has been so secretive and jumpy these past few days, but it doesn’t appear as if any further details are going to be forthcoming, so she simply nods.

“Steal me away.”

A grin crosses his face for a heartbeat, and then he leads her off the dance floor and up the centre of the room, towards… Josephine?

The ambassador gives them both a wide smile.

“Now,” Brennan says, a touch of desperation in his tone.

Josephine looks smug. “I had surmised that you would not be able to wait. Everything is prepared, just as you wished, Inquisitor.” And then, in an undertone that Cassandra guesses is not meant for her ears, though she hears it even so, “Breathe. All will be well.”

“Thank you,” he whispers back, and then he turns to Cassandra. “Upstairs, my lady?”

Again, she nods, and they slip through the door to their quarters.

When they reach the inner door, however, he pauses, worry written in every line of his body.

“I know this is ironic, but might I ask you to just… count to ten and _then_ follow me upstairs? I just want to… I want to check…”

His voice stutters out and she takes pity on him, pressing her fingers to his lips so he has no choice but to be silent. “Go. I will count.”

With a grateful look, he hurries away up the stairs, leaving her at the door, audibly counting, so that he won’t be surprised by her entrance. Ten seconds seem to take a lifetime before she starts to ascend the stairs.

She had purposefully not tried to imagine what he needed to check on, how the room might have been transformed, but it looks… much the same as usual. A roaring fire in the fireplace, the sofa still in place before it. As she reaches the top of the stairs, she notes that petals have been sprinkled across the floor and the bedspread, a beautiful touch, but…

He is waiting for her, as tense as anything, by the balcony door. The balcony that overlooks the mountains, not the gardens (and no matter how many times she reminds herself, she will never stop being amazed that she now resides in a room where she has to qualify _which_ balcony she means). When she reaches him, he steps to the side, revealing…

“Oh!”

She can’t help but gasp.

Two dozen lanterns and what seems like hundreds of flowers are scattered along the edges of the balcony, a blanket, several pillows and a basket in the centre. Above them, the sky is clear, stars shining down upon them.

Beside her, he waits, patiently still, though she can tell that he is near-dying with anticipation.

“Very romantic, my love,” she tells him, drawing him close to rest her forehead against his.

He melts at the touch.

“Come. Sit. This… this isn’t everything yet.”

Of this, she has no doubt. If there is one thing that she has learned about him, it is that he has near infinite depths beneath his often-misunderstood surface.

When they are sat, he opens the basket, producing wine and cups. He pours one for each of them, and then drains his own in one swallow.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Sorry. Nervous.”

“What have you got to be nervous about?”

He freezes, looking at her like a fennec who’s just spotted the hunter. “No reason.”

She keeps the eyebrow raised for a moment, and then settles back against the pillows, directing her gaze away from him and toward the sky. “You know, _stargazing_ is the perfect way to calm your brain down after a long day. I have it on very good authority.”

He gives her a still slightly nervous laugh, and then grins at her, visibly relaxing.

“See, this is one of the reasons that I love you. You always know the exact right thing to say.”

She snorts. “That has _not_ been my experience. I believe that quite often, I say precisely the wrong thing.”

“Well, if it’s not too much to ask, I hope you’re going to say the right thing now.”

He takes a very deep breath, suddenly so, so still, and then shifts, raising himself up onto his knees.

No, one knee.

Her heart starts to pound so hard that she can feel it within her chest as he reaches out to take her hand in his.

“Cassandra,” he says, voice so, so steady. “I love you. I’ve loved you for… as long as I’ve known you. Longer, really. Because I didn’t know you when I fell for you. I saw your beauty, and your rage, and your power, and it captivated me. Then I journeyed with you, and I saw your skill and your devotion and your determination, and I fell harder. But I don’t think it was until I saw your heart, until I saw your vulnerability and your compassion, that I truly… knew you. Perhaps I still don’t. I’m sure you still have secrets that I have left to discover. But… I told you on the balcony at the Winter Palace that I look at you, and I see the rest of my life. That’s still true. And… well, I suppose I’m asking if you look at me and see the rest of yours. Because nothing… _nothing_ would bring me greater happiness. Will you… _would_ you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Her voice is half-frozen in her throat. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to agree, because she finds that, for all her earlier worries, all her earlier doubts, there is actually nothing she would like more, but… She feels like if she opens her mouth to answer, she will start crying.

Have courage, she tells herself.

“Ye-“

Before she can finish even that one short syllable, his gaze drops to her hand and he lets out a noise that is part groan and part muffled cursing.

The moment shatters.

“What is it?” she asks, confused and mortified.

“Sorry!” he apologises immediately, and when he lifts his head, she can see the blush on his cheeks even in the candlelight. “There’s a _ring_. I got you a ring. Well, I made you one. Well, Harritt was the one who actually _made_ it, but he made it to my design, so I think that counts for something, don’t you? And now I’ve gone and spoiled everything by forgetting it and then _remembering_ it at the worst possible second.”

She rises up onto her knees, hauling him against her so she can seal her lips across his. The kiss calms them both, and she feels the moment that he melts again, his arm wrapping around her to hold her against himself. After a few more seconds, she pulls back, leaning her forehead against his.

“Go, fetch it,” she commands. “Then come back, and ask me again.”

He gives her an incandescent smile, scrambling to his feet and darting back inside their bedroom. She slumps back against the cushions, trying to will her heartbeat to slow. Trying to come to terms with the idea that they are – almost – officially engaged. Betrothed. Affianced. That she might be about to have something that she had tried to convince herself that she would never have, that she didn’t need, that she didn’t even want, even though she always secretly had…

A happily ever after.

She drains her wine cup in one swallow.

When he returns, he kneels again, and she sits beside him, letting him take her hand. He is clutching the ring so tightly that she can’t really see it, other than that it looks very… simple. She tries not to be disappointed. He chose it, he _designed_ it, and that is good enough for her.

“Cassandra,” he says. “I love you. I always have, and Maker help me, I always will. Will you marry me?”

She pauses for just a moment. Long enough to make the corner of his eye twitch.

“Please?”

“Oh, am I allowed to answer now?”

He grins. “Please. Please do.”

She leans in, kissing him.

“Wait, is that a yes?” he whispers, half against her lips.

“ _Yes_. I will marry you.”

As soon as she says it, he pulls back a little, sliding the ring onto her finger. She holds up her hand, finally seeing it properly for the first time. As she had surmised from first glance, it is… very simple. Just a two-toned band of pale metal, shining in the candlelight.

“It’s lovely,” she says, truthfully.

He gives her a slightly awkward smile. “Oh, I probably should have shown it to you properly before I put it on you, shouldn’t I? Sorry. I’ve just been so… _nervous_ all day. All week, really. Here.” He reaches for her hand, and she allows him to slip the ring off. “I’ll give it back, don’t worry. Just… There was thought behind this, I promise. See? It’s… it’s made of stormheart, inlaid with dragon bone. To symbolise us, I suppose. And on the inside…”

He tilts the ring so she can see the inside of the band, picking up one of the lanterns to help illuminate it. A delicate filigree has been excised from the stormheart to show the dragon bone inlay, in the pattern of a daisy chain.

“What enamours me is not just the surface,” he explains softly. “I thought your ring should have some hidden depths too.”

Tears prick at her eyes. Usually, she would restrain them, but… tonight she lets them fall, overwhelmed almost beyond words.

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” she manages to assure him, holding up her hand so he can slip it back onto her finger, sealing in in place with a tender kiss.

Then he shifts, settling back against the pillows that are piled up against the wall, drawing her with him. She lays her head on his shoulder and pulls his arms around her, looking up at the stars.

“Maker, I’m glad I didn’t wait,” he muses, after a little while. “I was so worried that I’d do something wrong and you’d say no that I barely remember half of anything that happened at the party, half of anything I’ve done this week, really. And well, I did do something wrong, multiple things, actually, but you… you said _yes_. And now there’s you, and me, and the stars, and I can just… _relax_.”

Taking his hand, she laces her fingers with his.

“Would you like to go back down?”

He makes a disagreeing noise. “Why? All I want is right here.”

“You don’t want to make an announcement?”

Another disagreeing noise. “Not tonight. The party is about the whole Inquisition; all those people down there, celebrating the fact we won. This… _this_ isn’t about winning. I’d like to keep this… just us. Just for tonight.”

“Just us?” she asks, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice. “Am I to believe that no one down there knows?”

He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “Well, you know Josephine does, obviously. She, Cullen and Leliana helped me… narrow down my ideas and arrange everything. So, a few of the servants at least know that I’m doing _something_ special, and likely, by extension… half the fortress, sorry. Then of course, Harritt made the ring, and Dagna…” He breaks off suddenly, groaning again.

“What?”

“Dagna. Dagna _enchanted_ it. I forgot to say. Your ring. It’s enchanted.”

She holds her hand up again. “Oh?”

“I had a… lot of ideas. As you can probably imagine. In the end though, I went for protection. It should increase your resistance to, well… everything. Fire, cold, electricity, and spirit, and boost your defence against all forms of attack, magic or not. Dagna said it should even act as a bit of a temperature modifier, so you’ll never be too hot or too cold. Just… just, in case you needed a reason to wear it.”

“I will wear it because _you_ gave it to me,” she insists. “But, thank you. I’m sure that will be very useful.”

“Leliana _did_ tell me to write all of this down, so I wouldn’t forget. She was right.”

“She usually is. Is that everything? Have you forgotten anything else?”

He wraps his arms a little tighter around her, the rumble of his laughter comforting under her cheek.

“Probably,” he admits, and then, with another chuckle, “In fact, yes. I spent half an hour the other day with Josephine helping me memorise all your middle names in the right order, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast.”

“Well done.”

“Forgot to put them in the speech, though, didn’t I? But I asked you and you said yes, and that’s the important thing.”

“It is.”

“Hard to believe that… what, a week ago? We were right in this spot, and the Breach had just been opened. And now Corypheus is gone, and Leliana is Divine, and… I’m yours. All yours.”

She hums softly in agreement.

“Sorry. There I go spoiling the mood. Did you… like this? Did it live up to your expectations?”

Another hum of agreement.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You mean it? There’s nothing I could have done better? Because I can think of a few things I wish I’d done a bit better. Like… all of it.”

Without warning, she shifts in his arms, turning to face him, slipping a leg over his so she can straddle his hips. He grins at her, hands lightly resting on her waist as hers land on his shoulders.

“I love you,” she tells him, matter of fact, like she’s telling him that the sky is blue or that Josephine cheats at Wicked Grace, dropping a kiss onto the left side of his mouth. “The proposal was _perfect_.” Another on the right side. “I am going to _marry_ you.” The last, she presses full on his lips, and joyfully he returns it.

Though she would have been happy to remain there, on the balcony until long past dawn, just as they are, she finds her world tipping backward as, suddenly and without warning, he gets to his feet, picking her up in his arms.

“What… what are you doing?” she asks, trying not to sound as alarmed as she feels.

He grins, jostling her a little to get a better grip on her thighs.

“I’ve never made love to a fiancée before. Do you imagine it’s very different?”

She can’t help but laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“Let’s find out.”


End file.
